


Daughter of Asha'bellanar

by DeCarabas



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, Implied Lavellan/Solas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:47:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7090186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeCarabas/pseuds/DeCarabas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hate not knowing everything, don’t you?” Lavellan says. “Well, you don’t always get what you want.” </p><p>Set shortly after Solavellan's Crestwood scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daughter of Asha'bellanar

Lavellan’s bare feet dangle carelessly over the edge of Skyhold’s ramparts, open air and mountain peaks far below, shoulders rounded and a trail of acrid-smelling smoke rising from the pipe in her hand.

“Still wish you’d been the one to drink from the Well?” she says to Morrigan.

And she does, that’s the thing of it. Even dizzy with relief at her near escape. To know what’s going on inside Lavellan’s mind right now, how the wonders of the past are whispering to her—

Yes. She does want that.

Lavellan says she likes the view up here, the clarity of the air. Feels like she can see to the ends of the earth. See what’s coming, maybe. She taps her pipe against the stones with a spill of hot ash and the scent of elfroot, and finally turns her face toward Morrigan instead of the distant horizon. “Though I don’t suppose it’s much of a view to you, pretty bird.” She splays her fingers as if to mimic feathers, and it takes Morrigan too long to notice what’s changed about her.

When Lavellan moves to turn away again, Morrigan grabs hold of her chin and moves her back to get a closer look at her bare face, washed out and colorless without Mythal’s markings.

She takes it for Flemeth’s work, though why Flemeth would want to remove her own markings, she can’t imagine. And Lavellan shrugs, pulls free of her grasp. She passes fingers lightly over her own skin, and Morrigan wonders if it feels any different to her.

“This was my doing, not hers. I’m still capable of making my own choices.” She refills her pipe from a pouch, and Morrigan waits for an explanation that doesn’t come. Lavellan glances at her sidelong, takes in her expression, smiles. “Hate not knowing everything, don’t you? Well, you don’t always get what you want.”

Morrigan can scarcely think of a more absurd lesson to try to teach her.

A trade then, Lavellan offers, for the shemlen daughter so full of Dalish tales. Knowledge for knowledge.

“You were raised by Mythal. How could you not have known? Tell me of her. Something. Anything.”

Desperate hunger.

But she hadn’t known, not a thing. She knows stories in stolen books and secrets pried from the stones of old ruins with her own hands, and she knows a woman who scrubbed pots and sent her to fetch the souls of gods, and what should she speak of? Bedtime stories? Bodies strung from trees? What did one look for in a goddess who’d abandoned you, only to return and order you around like a puppet?

And Lavellan’s body had leapt to obey, and that could have been her, and she can’t look away from the place where Lavellan’s markings used to be.

Morrigan speaks of swamps, of mud between her toes and of wind beneath her feathers and of fine robes woven to eat away at the willpower of the wearer, all the gifts of Lavellan’s goddess, and Lavellan in her turn speaks of a kiss.

Her lips on Morrigan’s are ungentle.


End file.
